15. Chapter 15
Cole
It takes a while for us to arrive at our final destination. Out of caution, I drive out of town, across the intracoastal waterway into mainland Florida, just in case we’re being tailed. Once I know we’re in the clear, I head back to our designated safe place.
Dune Garden Inn looks like the kind of place people book when they want charm, privacy, and a story to tell their friends later.
White cottages with pale shutters. Flower boxes under the windows.
A crushed-shell lane curving between palms and sea grape.
Little signs shaped like birds marking each unit.
Cute. I hate cute. Cute usually means bad sight lines, too many decorative hiding places, and locks chosen by someone who thinks brass looks nicer than reinforced steel.
But Sloane uses the back cottage for protected relocations because it has one road in, one service exit, no shared walls, and a straight view to the marsh on one side and the parking area on the other.
Rafi handles the booking trail through three layers of boring paperwork no one will ever search unless they already know where to look. So cute will have to do.
Kara sits beside me in the SUV, silent, one hand gripping the strap of her tote. She has not cried. I wish she would.
Tears would be cleaner than this. Tears come from the body. This stillness comes from somewhere deeper, where fear goes when it stops asking permission and starts rearranging the furniture.
Sheriff and Sloane are already at the inn, according to the last update. Rafi is at The Beacon pulling tower data, camera feeds, rental records, and whatever else he can pry loose from the day without a warrant and with one once he gets Eli the right language.
The second photo came from a different number with a local tower. Close enough to make my teeth ache.
He can’t watch everywhere.
I keep both hands on the wheel and do not let myself think about what could have happened if I had stayed on that call for another five minutes. If Kara had gone to the porch railing. If the person in the dunes had decided a photo wasn’t enough.
I cannot afford ‘if’. If is a trap. What matters is next.
Sloane stands outside the last cottage when we arrive, arms crossed, sunglasses on, face unreadable.
A woman in a floral blouse pretends to deadhead flowers near the office and fails to pretend she isn’t watching us.
Local owner, probably. Trusted enough to ask no questions or too curious to survive long in this business. Maybe both.
“Inside,” Sloane says.
Kara obeys. That tells me more than I want to know about how scared she is.
The cottage is small but better than expected. Living room with a daybed along one wall. Tiny kitchen. One bedroom. One bath. Back door leading to a fenced patio and marsh view beyond it. Windows with decent locks. Not great. Decent.
I set Kara’s tote on the kitchen table and do the walk-through while Sloane stays with her.
When I return, Kara is standing in the middle of the living room like she does not know which version of herself belongs in this room. Chef. Celebrity. Client. Target.
To me she's a woman that's mine to protect. But, not really mine.
“This is temporary,” Sloane tells her. “We’re keeping the circle tight. No public posting. No responding to unknown numbers. No calls to anyone without checking with us first.”
Kara’s eyes glance at me. “Anyone?”
Sloane hears the question beneath it.
“Anyone who had your location, knew your plans, knew your private number, or could have learned those things.”
“My assistant?”
“Yes.”
“My publicist?”
“Yes.”
“Vanessa.”
Sloane does not blink. “Yes.”
Kara looks away. I want to step in front of that hurt. Take the impact. Redirect it. Do something. I stay where I am because this is not a threat I can block with my body.
Sloane softens his voice by a fraction.
“Kara, this does not mean we believe your best friend hurt you. It means we do not clear people based on love.”
Kara wraps her arms around herself. “She called when we were leaving. I didn’t answer.”
“Good.”
“She’ll be worried.”
“Probably.”
Kara lets out a breath that sounds like it scrapes on the way up. “Everything feels wrong.”
“I know,” Sloane says.
“You don’t, though.”
The room goes quiet. Then Sloane removes his sunglasses.
“No,” he says. “Not exactly. But I know what it feels like when the map you trusted turns out to be wrong.”
Kara looks at him. Something passes between them. I don’t know what. I’m not meant to.
Sloane puts the sunglasses back on and turns to me. “Eli has deputies on the dune path. They found impressions but too much sand shift for a clean print. Possible tire marks near the service pull-off east of the cottage. Rafi’s checking traffic cams.”
“Car?” I ask.
“Plate came back to a rental. Orlando pickup. Cash deposit with prepaid card. ID may be fake.”
Kara makes a small sound. I look at her. She has gone pale again.
“Orlando,” she says.
Sloane nods. “Yes.”
“So this is someone from home.”
“It looks that way.”
Sloane stays another ten minutes. He gives instructions, confirms Eli will keep a unit rotating nearby, and tells Kara that Rafi is trying to recover any camera angle from the inn road, The Sandpiper road, Bluefin Marina, and the convenience store near Orlando where the first burner activated.
Useful honesty, but no dramatic promises.
When he leaves, the cottage feels way too quiet.
Kara stands by the table, staring aimlessly.
“You can text Vanessa from my phone,” I say.
Her eyes lift.
“We keep it simple. You’re safe. Security moved you as a precaution. You’ll call when you can. No location. No details.”
She swallows. “That sounds cold.”
“It’s not cold. It’s safe.”
“Those are starting to feel like the same thing.”
“No.”
The word comes out harder than I intend. Kara looks hurt.
I make myself lower my voice. “Cold doesn’t care how you feel. Safe cares enough not to make it worse.”
Her expression shifts, and I think maybe she understands. Maybe I do too.
I hand her my phone with the message already open and stand close enough to see if she shakes, far enough not to read every word over her shoulder unless she gives me reason.
She types slowly.
I’m safe. Security moved me as a precaution after another incident. I can’t talk details right now, but I’ll call when I can. Please don’t worry.
She stares at the message.
“Send it,” I say gently.
She does. Vanessa replies in under thirty seconds.
Another incident? What does that mean? Kara, you’re scaring me. Where are you?
Kara closes her eyes. A second message.
Please don’t shut me out. Not after everything we’ve been through.
Her hand tightens around my phone.
There it is. The hook under the ribs. I see it catch. I see Kara bleed without a mark on her.
“She’s scared,” Kara whispers.
“Maybe.”
Her eyes open. “Maybe?”
“We don’t know what she is from a text.”
“That sounds awful.”
“I know.”
“She has been there for me for years.”
“I know.”
“No, Cole. You don’t.” Her voice cracks, and this time anger comes with the fear.
“She was there when culinary school fell apart. When people thought I was making excuses. When I thought maybe I was losing my mind because things kept happening and no one could prove it. She believed me.”
I do not answer immediately. Because every word matters now in her story.
“She may have believed you because she loves you,” I say.
Kara’s face trembles.
“Or?” she asks.
I hate this. God, I hate this.
“Or because she knew you were telling the truth.”
The silence after that is absolute. Then Kara steps back as if I touched her with a hot poker.
“No.”
“Kara …”
“No.” She shakes her head once. Then again. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to take the one person who didn’t make me feel crazy and turn her into another suspect because you found some pattern.”
“I’m not turning her into anything.”
“You are.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“She is my best friend.”
“And someone was in the dunes today.”
“She wouldn’t …”
“You don’t know that.”
The words are out before I can soften them. Kara flinches. I would rather take a punch. The room feels too small around us. Too bright. Too cute. The wrong place for a truth like this to start tearing through someone’s life.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “I need a minute.”
Every instinct in me says no. No closed doors or distance. I don’t want to spend one minute where I can’t see her face and know she is still with me.
But privacy matters. Choice matters. People who love you should want you safe more than they want you easy to reach. My own words come back at me with teeth.
I step aside. “Bedroom. Door stays unlocked.”
She looks like she wants to argue. Then she looks too tired to bother.
“Fine.”
She goes into the bedroom and closes the door. Not slammed, just closed. Somehow, that feels worse.
I stand in the living room for three seconds, then five, then ten. My phone is still on the table. It buzzes.
Vanessa again.
Is he making you ignore me?
My blood goes cold in a way that has nothing to do with fear. There are many possible explanations for that message.
A scared best friend. A possessive friend. A woman who knows too much about the exact shape of the wedge being driven between herself and Kara.
I take a screenshot and forward it to Sloane. Then I look toward the closed bedroom door. On the other side, Kara makes no sound.
No crying.
No movement.
Nothing.
I do not like being outside any door that separates me from Kara Stone.
I like it even less when the person trying to reach through that door may already know where to push.